


Inner Piece

by frogfarm



Series: Faith the Vampire Slayer [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-02
Updated: 2006-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:43:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Angel 5x11, "Damage". Inadvertent pseudoincestuous polymorphous perversity. How Dana met the new ones.</p><p><b>Note:</b> Non-con in the form of a flashback to "Seeing Red".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inner Piece

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Angel 5x11, "Damage". 
> 
>   

 

The first new thing she remembers, when she awakes, is how still it all is in her head. Somehow she knows it will pass, this borrowed quiet, but for a short time the world has stopped but for her. So lost in the sea change she barely feels her body, warm and pampered under a fuzzy blanket, covered in dirt and bruises and blood (not hers) someone is wiping away.

Her hands twitch at the absence of shackles. When she opens her eyes it's to the most piercing green she can remember; and the knowledge that she's seen this smile before.

That was how Dana met Willow the first time, for real.

* * *

Every other seems like a pale, doomed attempt to rediscover the first. She's sane enough to be grateful for the lack of side effects from Willow's calming spell, and it had to be better than the near-fatal dose of tranks Team Angel used to bring her down. No snapping fingers to cure the crazy girl; only patience and time. She doesn't throw soup anymore, but every time her mouth opens it's like she kills something inside them. Even when they laugh.

That first time was the only one they'd been alone, but she quickly learns how very much no one else thought _that_ was a good idea, not even Andrew. Every time after there's a Slayer hovering over Willow's shoulder, and even eyes shut she can feel their demon's hearts burn to be set free. With so much less history the younger ones are almost safe; memories crowding the edges, fading to the din at her center.

They constantly remind her she's not a prisoner, though she came to them in chains (perverted, trash) and London is colder and snowier than California. Millions more practical reasons to stay in, all of which she gets at the same time she wants to bust at the seams. So she sits and gazes out the window for hours, nose pressed against the glass until the junior Slayers come home, pouring through the door fit to burst themselves. Except for them it's no more than sheer joy and power, and the boundless enthusiasm of surviving their first apocalypse.

She knows better from Buffy. After a while, you start to lose count.

* * *

As with Doctor Rabinaw before them, her every word is recorded, though for different motives; years of experience have taught them all too well the value of listening to the mad, every utterance pored over and dissected a dozen ways, cross-referenced against each moment of history and hint of prophecy. The invasion of her privacy holds no real meaning, yet another thing she knows only because someone else does. They say she is their fault, their responsibility, and it makes the pain in their eyes that much worse.

It's how she knows Giles will be the next to come, why she says his name before the door even opens, trepidation in his eyes bringing thoughts of stevedores. It doesn't in the least prepare her for what he says, which when she thinks of it later (always) only makes perfect sense.

"Do you know why I'm here?" Not _Do you know who you are?_, or _Do you know who I am?_

"Make me better." She already feels different, but _better_ is nominal. Her eyes dart to the watchful Slayer at his back as he sips tea from a chipped mug. "Fix me."

He sets down the mug, opening the leather bag at his side to produce a handful of colored stones, carefully placing them on the table.

Her hand hovers over them before pulling back into her chest. When her gaze rises to meet his, the pain of her betrayal is an open wound.

"You?"

He wants to flinch or turn away -- she can smell it -- but there's no fear. "Yes. If you'll trust me."

"Stuck a needle in me. Poisoned me." Trembling fingers clutch her shirt as she looks anywhere but him. "If you touch me, I'll kill you."

Behind him the demon (Slayer) coils, ready to spring.

"You're not her, Dana." So much pain underneath, and the love on his face is more than she can bear.

"If you have access to Buffy's memories, then you know that was not the end of our relationship. That we were able to work past that and more...that she again trusted herself to these meditative sessions, in preparation for her battle with Glory." She finally looks back up, huddled in her chair like a broken thing. A cracked hint of a smile touches his lips. "And that in spite all of this...the one thing she can never forgive me for, is --"

"Spike." So many memories of the white-haired demon (angel), tearing every which way. She never wants to see him again, wants to run back to Los Angeles and beg forgiveness, beat him bloody 'til he teaches her everything she'll never learn from Giles. Doesn't know what would happen, if they learned their former nemesis turned champion turned Flaming Torch has joined Buffy in coming back from the grave, but things are already complicated. For everyone.

Giles is still sitting quiet across from her, and she wants to throw herself into his arms but she hasn't the right, though it feels so. He looks at her like he would love her no matter who she was. No matter how many times they betray and forgive each other.

"Now the man who abducted you, this...Walter Kindel...apparently went to some trouble to condition you. Associating colors with specific emotional states." He might as well be discussing the weather as he pours fresh tea from the pot, indicating the stones spread out between them. "If any of these cause you distress, I would like you to point them out, and we'll set them aside without undue fuss." Something twinkles in his eyes as he lifts the mug, inhaling its steam. "I honestly don't know how many more blows to the head I have in me, so if you're going to kill me -- I believe I'd greatly prefer something quick. Perhaps a good throat slashing."

A short bark of a laugh bubbles up, and she extends a pointing finger.

"Yellow makes you weak." The stone disappears in one hand, and the warmth on his face prompts her to continue.

"Brown makes you sleepy..."

* * *

"So what's green make ya? Minty fresh?"

Rona gives her companion a dirty look, but Dana laughs, surveying the shelves. She likes Faith, one of the few who understands and never condescends. Rona's prickly and abrasive, always has been, with constant undercurrents of resentment the others can't help but inevitably get sucked into. The bathroom is huge, all brass and tile, the others sitting on a marble bench across the room; Rona unsuccessfully trying to follow her senior's example and be cool, hang back, let the insane Slayer have her space.

"I want this one."

"What is it?" Rona's casual tone is definitely forced, but Faith doesn't react.

Dana squints at the label. They think she may need glasses. "Alpine Mist."

"Head for the mountains." Faith smiles. "Could use a cold one right now."

Rona looks skeptical as ever. "I still think it's too soon."

"Not your call, Goliath." Faith slides off the bench, pulling the other girl to her feet. "We'll be right outside. You need anything, give a holler. Okay?"

"Okay." Eye contact is scary, looking in the windows of the soul to someone's head (heart). With Faith it's the other way round, as if the other woman's strength flows into her, all the doubts and insecurities just one more part of who she is. But the room is quieter without them, light echoing sharp off tiles like the breath in her chest.

The towel falls to the floor and she steps inside, shower door squeaking on rails as it swings shut. Fumbling with knobs for the right mixture; so many of her amazed at the mere fact of running water, trying not to look at the faint map of scars covering her flesh. Kindel was an artist, his work healed fast and long before the power came to her. No permanent damage even if she wasn't strong

(Slayer)

now to open the bottle but the top doesn't cooperate, too much escaping before she figures it out. An animal growl rises at the strong, unnatural scent; the First has always been loudest, raw, wordless emotion that should deafen but is actually easier to tune out than the echoes who follow, waves that ebb and flow with no discernible rhyme or reason.

She scrubs harder, eye tearing when shampoo trickles in, sticking her head under the spray. Lather, rinse, repeat. Buffy was second for so long, shining in the darkness, already gone to Europe before Andrew and his Angels unloaded her unconscious body from the plane. These days it's Faith, a constant presence since arriving by Willow-and-coven express, refusing to leave the witch's side when Giles requested her. And in the odd aftermath of a spell that predates her rebirth, she _knows_ Willow as well, almost as intimately as the rest, albeit through Faith-colored glasses; dreams of red hair spilling over sheets, whispers and sighs of joy she still can't believe is real

(not hers)

They say her parents are alive, can be contacted any time, and she barely remembers them. Faith never knew her dad, would have killed her mother if the woman hadn't died in a pool of cheap booze and vomit. Buffy will never be hers but Willow's no second best, something totally unexpected and painful in its beauty and who'd have thought she'd find something approaching love from anyone, let alone someone she tried to

(kill)

knife at her throat, pretty little thing all pressed up against her, but the witch's heart belongs to Buffy, always will though she

(left us)

wanted to cut that look right out, make her scream and she can't help but think of it still sometimes. Willow is more than good and yet Faith will never forget tearful hot kisses in rain, as good as she'd known they would be; misses Buffy something fierce, despite the old resentments that will never die. Every look in those eyes reminds her how it felt to see the world through them, how big sister will never quite forgive that ultimate violation. How that perfect skin felt under those delicate hands, tight muscle and perky tits that wouldn't melt in your mouth, fingers going where they always wanted digging deep inside

(tastes like pennies, pennies from heaven)

leaning against wet tile, one hand between her thighs, the other clenched in her teeth as she stares wildly around. So many times she's been here after a battle, to wash away the blood --

"No," she whimpers, too late.

(know you felt it. when i was inside you)

"Please don't --"

(gonna make you feel it)

The dark tide rises, and she gladly drowns.

"Holy crapnuts." Andrew blinks in the light like a mole, absent-mindedly adjusting his fuzzy robe. The damage to the bathroom is mostly incidental, the natural consequence of two Slayers trying to restrain a third, apart from the fist-sized holes in the walls. One side of Rona's face sports a massive bruise, and even Faith looks shaken.

The junior Watcher shakes his head. "I wish Xander was here."

Faith ignores him. "Guess you were right."

"I wasn't gonna say it." Rona doesn't hide her embarrassment. "Let's just get this cleaned up."

* * *

Letting go is easy, but so is holding on. The hard part comes after the smiling joking being a real girl, when you lose your grip and it all slips away but the tiny helpless part that knows exactly what's going on, helpless to stop until Willow appears in the doorway and she goes limp in their grasp. Tears and recriminations fly, growing worse when she runs into Willow's arms wet and sobbing _no drugs, just kill me_ and Rona covers her mouth with her hand while Faith stands there stone-faced and silent. She lets Willow wrap her in the towel, take her away to the attic room

(high in the tower)

comes back to her face dirty with tears, head in Faith's lap, a killing hand gentle on her forehead. Downstairs the arguments are in full swing, impassioned voices on all sides of the debate.

"Sorry..." The guttural sob becomes laughter, and Faith echoes a dry snort.

"Most people only gotta face their own demons. Not your fault ya got stuck with all of ours."

She looks up in surprised realization, hysteria forgotten. "You knew."

"Huh?" Faith's brow furrows, puzzled. "Gettin' better at readin' between the lines, but -- come again?"

Such a struggle, just to put words together. "You knew this would happen. To someone like me."

"Takes all kinds." Faith shrugs, and Dana sits up, clutching the towel.

"You think it's her fault."

"Right." The dark Slayer (which?) offers a crooked smile. "Pronoun trouble. You mean --"

"Buffy." She bows her head, unwilling to look in this mirror. "Had her big gun, pulled the trigger. Couldn't have done it without her."

Rough fingers tangle in hers, squeeze almost to hurt. "Wasn't about followin' orders. Red knew what she was gettin' into."

"Made us strong." Her eyes sting as she stares at the union of their hands. "Left us."

A heavy sigh. "B's been carryin' the world long enough. Time someone else had a turn."

She crawls into willing arms, returning the fierce embrace with all her strength. Her sister Slayer is just as much a prisoner; teleported in as a sidekick, a wanted criminal with no papers, unable to leave the grounds.

"Don't leave."

"Gots to, kiddo. Lotta Potentials back stateside. Had to leave one hangin' to come here. And you're gonna get better," she concludes; quiet, insistent. "Number one Wicca on the case. And you're strong."

She listens to the beat of their hearts, one step out of rhythm. "Liar."

Faith hugs her close. "Don't you believe it."

**


End file.
